I have no answers. And I barely know how to dress myself in public as my nephew – who has just reminded me that “I don’t need to wear sunglasses inside” – will attest to.

[Yes. I do, Bratcula. And I don’t need a reason. That’s how being-an-adult works.]

There is nothing like getting advice from someone who still drinks from a juice box.

I remember when Mikie was sweet. When he thought there were people living in the attic and refused to go up there. Now, he’s mastering sarcasm and that delightful trait of having a comment for every-friggin’-thing.

Pre-teen purgatory is a weird gray area [for me, not him.]

On the one hand, Mikie’s still got that adorable baby face. Chubby cheeks. And sometimes, he still says the cutest crap ever.

But on the other hand, it’s like watching your favorite shoe store burn to the ground.

Not cute. Not even remotely.

Neither is itching.

Or having a cast thingie on your foot. I guess it’s really a cast-imposter. It’s 1,000 layers of bandages and gauze, with hard plastics parts in the ankle bits. Whatever. It’s a foot prison. And foot-prison was okay when I was konked out in a Vicodin-induced stupor for a week after my operation.

And because I am on Short Term Disability Leave for 6 weeks (as of January 9th), I’ve got tons of time to obsess over it.

Itch.

Itch.

Itch.

Grrrrrrrrrrrr!

Now, I know why my cats stalk a fly on a wall for hours.

The fly hasn’t invaded their world. The fly has become their world. AND IT MUST DIE!

So I stick a knife in the cast.

Then, a toothbrush.

But that’s not enough. The itch is still not dead. I need scissors. That’s what I need! To cut things.

And I see a string hanging out of the bottom of the cast thingie.

I just cut it. That can’t hurt. Right?

A string is so small.

Then, I start digging in the bottom of the cast with pointy things and grab a bit of gauze.

I just cut it. That can’t hurt. Right?

A bit is so small. Small things don’t matter. Everybody knows that.

Bit. Cut. Bit. Cut. Bit. Cut.

For hours.

Until I could stick my finger in. Ahhhhhhh…. I am fingering the bottom of my cast. Mmmmm….

This might be the best sex I’ve ever had.

And there is air, genuine air on my toes.

Oh? What’s this? A hook. Sticking out of the side of my toe.

I’m no doctor, but I am pretty sure I am not meant to be fingering my new hook.

This can’t be good. So I do the only logical thing.

I start picking up the little bits of gauze and shoving them back into the bottom of my cast.

Um… like… okay. So that didn’t work.

Then, I tried to re-wrap some of the bandages. But every time I did. It hurt like hell.

Um… like… okay. That didn’t work either. And we clearly know who’s fault this is…

The doctor’s.

Sure, he told me 50 times after the operation not to stick anything into the cast. Something about staph infection, dying. Whatever. But there was no mention of a hook in my toe.

Words like “hook” resonate with OCD-types. Hello? It’s not about saying a bunch of words. It’s about saying the right words.

His lack of specificity is the issue. Not me.

I rest my case, Your Honor.

“People always forget that I told them about the hook,” Doctor Cryptic assures me, the next day – at my first post-op appointment.

[Yeah, right. It’s so easy to forget what you’ve never been told. Words are so crazy like that.]

“Oh, I’m sure you told me. I just forgot. You know how it is?”

Then, Doctor Cryptic starts investigating my mangled cast.

[Umm… What to say? What to say?]

“What did you dooooooooo?” he says slowly, like he is tutoring someone that is really stupid.

Of course, I regale him with my Tale of Itching Woes. He interrupts.

“How could you do this to my work? Are you crazy? Are you a child?”

[See? This is an example of how to friggin’ use the wrong words. I know I am being crazy, but from one drama queen to another – take it down a notch, Diva.]

Do I need to do everything around this joint?

Be the person with 2 new screws – and a hook – in my foot, hobbling across a snowy parking lot for this bizarreness and be the doctor with… you know? people skills.

Great.

Now, I want to punch my doctor. But I am stuck with him because it takes 4 months to fully recover from this. [It’s like some dysfunctional marriage. And marriage sucks? Everybody knows that.]

More importantly, he controls the drugs and signing off on my Disability Leave.

And the only thing better than Vicodin is freedom, baby.

Word.

He takes a deep breath.

Inhaaaaaale.

Exhaaaaaale.

“I would like to have a good relationship with you so I need you to never to do that again,” he says. [Ugh. Just do your job. I can put up with a little crazy if you’re a genius. And he is…]

Check this out. See? My foot.

It’s still swollen like a watermelon, but it’s beautiful, eh? My technical condition is called – hallux valgus rigidus (basically, a big lump on the side of my big toe and crooked bones). It’s genetic. So never let it be said that my family only gave me stuff to get over.

They also gave me diseases.

Yaaaaaaay! Genetics.

“Don’t worry when I pull the hook out – you won’t feel a thing,” the doctor assures me.

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68 thoughts on “The Hook in My Toe”

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Welcome to my world. I teach…well I go there every day…middle schoolers in the process of mastering sarcasm. If nothing else it does make for good stories. I am also suffering from foot issues but mine were self induced not inherited. So I feel some of your pain. I’m sure you’re healthy and ready to dance all night by now. Although I’m sure that’s not an exercise choice you’d make. : )